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He was called The Carver. He lured young gay men on a night out and the next morning they were found dead with a punishment carved into their skin.
Timmy's eyes were stinging and dry from unblinkingly staring at the television as he sat in bed, waiting for Donald, sick of hearing the same news.
He could see it now, Donald getting involved unasked. He could see that pinched look on Donald's face, the clenched jaw and stillness with which he'd watch the news. He'd probably turn to Timmy and smile, say something about how he hoped someone would catch this scumbag. Then he'd lie still all night, staring up at the ceiling, unaware that Timmy would be watching his eyes, waiting for the few moments when his eyes would close for a second before he'd start staring again.
Timmy could save Donald from this. Save him from danger. From some man murdering out of a some sense of righteousness. Save him from taking this burden on his shoulders out of his misplaced guilt. Every gay man who died wasn't Kyle and his death wasn't Donald's fault.
"I know," Donald might have said, but he wouldn't believe it.
Of course, then The Carver would get caught. Donald would read about it eventually, about the men that died and he'd wonder what he could have done to help them, like somehow it was his job to fight for every queer case in a straight and narrow world.
He'd have that photograph out of its box, staring it like wishing and willing could bring Kyle back. Like somehow one more man blew his own brains out because Donald was brave enough to say 'this is who I am'.
The door to the bathroom opened and Donald stepped out, idly scratching his stomach as a commercial about shower gel started on the TV. He got into bed with a sigh, tiredly flopping back and closing his eyes as he pulled up the covers.
Timmy watched him for a while, relaxed and safe.
Then he picked up the remote and turned up the volume as the news came on again, the anchor reporting the top story with a stern and concerned face.
Donald's eyes snapped open after a moment and he sat up to watch the TV, his gaze never wandering the whole time as butterflies of fear and anxiety fluttered in Timmy's chest.
He could save Donald from danger, or save Donald from himself. But not both at the same time.
*
Timmy always seemed to walk into Donald's office in time to catch Kenny having a good ogle at Donald sitting unaware behind his desk, which only seemed capable of remaining organized for two seconds.
This time Donald was running out for five minutes, telling Timmy to wait for him. Timmy sighed and watched him go - he seemed to do that a lot.
Then he heard another sigh and turned his narrow-eyed gaze on Kenny who was still staring at the door Don had left through. Something had to be done.
Timmy said, "Kenny, I like you, you're a stand up fellow."
"I am?" Kenny asked, frowning.
"Absolutely. That's why I'm going to tell you now instead of after giving you a pair of cement shoes and sending you for a swim. There's something you ought to know about me," Timmy said smoothly.
"Cement shoes?" Kenny asked.
"It's where I make you stand in a bucket of quick drying cement and throw you off a bridge into a big river, Kenny," Timmy answered.
"And the thing I should know about you is?" Kenny asked carefully.
"I'm a member of the gay mafia. We have access to a lot of cement and impeccable organization skills."
"Okay," Kenny said. "Why I are you telling me this?"
"I want you to stop staring at Donald's ass on account of it being married to mine," Timmy said, way past thinking rationally now.
Kenny gave Timmy a look. "There's no gay mafia. That's a myth. Besides, don't you have to be Italian to be in the mafia?"
"Not if it's a gay mafia. Then you just have to be gay," Timmy explained. "The point is, I'm in one and considering encasing you in cement right now."
Kenny narrowed his eyes at Timmy and then smiled. "Oh my god. You're the reason Don's secretaries don't stay more than a week!"
Timmy considered Kenny's quick thinking abilities and how they might benefit Donald and help in keeping him bullet free. "Fine. You an ogle him but only from a specific distance and when I'm not here."
Kenny snorted. "Or what?"
"Or I'll make something up about you and get Donald to fire you," Timmy said, inspecting his shirt cuff.
Kenny stared. "Wow. You're such a bitch!" Then he slowly smiled. "It's kind of hot."
Timmy gave Kenny another narrow-eyed look as the other man gave him a long approving one. Well, as long as Donald's ass was safe...
*
One time Timmy found himself alone in Donald's office, waiting for him to return so they could both have lunch together, Donald's trusty secretary had run off to the local bakery to check out the newest buns -- his words -- and Timmy was left walking the length of the small room, wondering why Donald couldn't invest in better lighting.
After a while Timmy sighed and sat down at Donald's desk. His hand moved to rearrange some papers, but then he remembered Donald operated from a system of mess. Everything was in it's place, but only Donald knew of these places and it was better to let them be.
Timmy leaned back in the chair and smiled at the thought of Donald sitting here, doing the whole gumshoe bit, wearing his holster even though the only person that needed shooting in this office was Kenny and Donald was just too nice to do that.
Timmy looked at his watch, saw that Donald was running twenty minutes late and decided to call him. He was just picking up the telephone receiver when the door to the office opened, revealing a woman standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame and another on the curve of her hip, her body hidden by dark shadows.
She sauntered in slowly to reveal sculpted blonde hair, full red lips and stilettos that had to be hell to walk in, her curvy figure wearing a flattering red summer dress.
She sauntered all the way in and smiled when she reached Donald's desk. Timmy stood up and nodded.
"Hello," he said politely. “Can I help you?”
She smiled, arching an eyebrow and giving him an appraising look. "Donald Strachey. I've been looking for you," she said, her voice breathy.
Timmy soon realized that in a straight situation, rather than admiring her shoes and make up, he'd probably be drooling at this Marilyn Monroe's feet right now. As it was, he really did have to admire those shoes.
"That's you, isn't it? I've just been dying to meet you," she said with a flutter of eyelids.
Timmy gave her a careful look. He wasn't sure how he felt about people dying to meet Donald, or plain dying anywhere around him, especially a woman with such an impressive cleavage. Sure Timmy wasn't for turning, but Donald... he was... pure. Innocent.
Oh, fine, Timmy just didn't want any hussy near Donald, male, female or Kenny. Especially Kenny.
Timmy smiled brightly. "Yes, Donald Strachey. That's me. How can I help you?"
Marilyn smiled and leaned across the desk, reaching for Timmy's face. She slowly pulled his glasses off as he frowned.
She put the glasses down and said very softly, "How do you sleep at night?"
Timmy considered the question, not really having been hit on like this in a long time. Then Marilyn hit on him in a completely different way. Her fist flew hard into his face, knocking him back into Donald's chair.
The woman gave him a heated glare as Timmy stared open-mouthed. She picked up his glasses and threw them into his lap with, "I hope you know you're a real jerk."
Timmy scowled. "Well, if I didn't before, rest assured, I do now."
"Drop dead, asshole," the woman said before marching up to the door where she walked into Donald.
The woman pushed past Donald as he gave her a wary look, obviously recognizing her from somewhere before slowly turning to see Timmy still sitting behind the desk and holding his jaw.
"The result of a satisfied customer I presume," Timmy said.
Donald sheepishly approached the desk and gave a little shrug. "Sorry."
Timmy narrowed his eyes, promising himself that from now on someone else could take Donald's messages.
*
It was Sunday for crying out loud. Sunday. Even God rested on Sunday. But not the people constantly calling Donald on his cell. Some were clients, others were potential clients, some were people who liked to phone up Albany's only gay detective just to tell him he'd be going to
hell, which was rather nice of them. Donald seemed to spend the whole day with the cell glued to his ear.
Some time in the afternoon, Timmy found himself in the quiet of the kitchen, sitting at the counter with his paper and a cup of coffee. He would have remained quiet and happy had Donald's cell not started ring just a few inches from him.
Timmy glared at it and picked it up, answering with a terse, "Hello. Donald Strachey's phone."
"This Donald Strachey?" the man asked.
Timmy scowled. "That depends on who's calling."
"Oh. Right. Sure," the man said. "Well, I'm not a whack job if you're worried."
Timmy frowned. "Well, I wasn't worried, but thank you for laying that concern to rest anyway. Can I help you? Mr...?"
"Tad. My name's Tad."
"Okay, Mr. Tad. What's so important you had to call a man on his day off?" Timmy asked absently, filling one of the words in his crossword.
"Oh, uh, I saw your picture in a magazine," Mr. Tad said. "Says you're the gay detective."
"Private Investigator," Timmy said, frowning at the empty boxes of his puzzle.
"Yeah. That's really cool. Say, listen, you seeing anyone right now? I mean, I saw your picture and thought, hey, he's pretty hot, maybe I'll ask him out," Tad said, his laugh sounding a little nervous.
Timmy dropped his pen and turned his head to stare at the phone in his hand. He slowly brought it back to his ear and asked, "You're calling for a date?"
"Sure," Tad said lazily.
Timmy said, "Could you excuse me a second?"
"Oh, sure... Don."
Timmy put the phone down on his paper and looked around the counter for something appropriate. Not finding anything useful, he just went ahead with his first urge and got up, opened the window and threw the cellphone out hard.
Smiling, he clapped his hands and returned to his paper, feeling quite content.
A few minutes later he turned around to the sound of Donald's footsteps as he ran down the stairs. Donald went straight for the counter, looked around for a second, scowled and then just stood there, eyes searching the living room.
"You okay, honey?" Timmy asked.
Donald scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, uh, actually no, I thought I left my cellphone down here."
Timmy gave Donald a long look, nice and innocent. "Here?"
"Yeah. You seen it?"
Timmy looked around and then shook his head. "No, sorry."
Donald waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. It's probably lying around here somewhere."
Timmy got up and smiled at Donald, placing his hand on the back of Donald's neck and pecking him on the cheek. "I'll help you look for it."
Donald stared. "But you haven't finished your crossword."
Timmy smiled. "I don't mind."
Donald smiled back, all warmth and affection as he stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Timmy's lips. "You know what? Fuck the phone, let's go out."
Timmy brightened. "Out?"
"Yes, out," Donald said with a grin as he headed back towards the stairs, Timmy still smiling, quite guilt free actually.
Well, it wasn't as though he wouldn't replace the phone.
*
Timmy was nervously sitting in the car, if you could call it a car, peering out of the window. Donald hadn't been inside the house long and also, he could handle himself, and also an ex-Marine, and also, he was Donald Strachey. So really, Timmy shouldn't have been worried and just stay put. Donald probably had the whole thing under control and if anything was wrong, then Bub was probably already on his way.
A knocking on the door window made Timmy jump out of his seat and most of the glove compartment fall on the floor.
Timmy saw Kenny peering through the window and opened the door with, "Kenny! What are you doing here?"
Kenny got into the car and shivered, shutting the door a few times before it actually shut. He rubbed his hands together and said, "Donald said to keep an eye on you in case you tried something funny. So I followed you in a taxi and then waited on the street corner. Anyway, I was getting some funny looks so I figured I'd wait here before someone calls the cops."
Timmy gave Kenny an impatient glare. "Kenny, something tells me you'd get funny looks whether you were waiting on a street corner in the middle of the night or not."
"I'm freezing," Kenny muttered, looking out of the window before he turned and looked at the mess at his feet.
Timmy followed his gaze to the disabled parking badge. He picked it up with a sigh and shook his head. "Oh, Donald."
"So, have you got anything?" Kenny asked. "Did we get him?"
Timmy tried not to look too annoyed by the eager grin on Kenny's face. "I don't know. To be honest, I kind of hope not. I'm not sure I like the idea of Donald being in there with a serial killer."
"How long has it been?"
Timmy looked at his watch. "Ten minutes."
Kenny looked at Timmy and it was touching to see the concern in the young man's eyes.
"Well," Timmy said, "That includes parking the car, going into the house, turning the lights on, snooping around the house under the pretense of needing to use the bathroom if I know Donald at all."
Kenny's look turned from concern to worry.
Timmy nodded, pulling out his cellphone and handed it to Kenny. "Call the police, ask for Bub if I'm not out in five minutes."
Timmy turned to go when Kenny pulled on his arm. "Wait wait wait! You can't just go in there. The guy could be a murderer. You don't even have a gun."
Timmy grabbed Kenny's hand and shoved it way. "Kenny, I don't have time to argue, so I suggest you do what I tell you before we both get arrested for looking suspicious in a suspicious looking car."
Timmy gave Kenny a look and turned to go when Kenny grabbed him again. This time Kenny was back to looking worried. He said, "Good luck."
Timmy sighed and gave a nod. "Just remember what I said."
He got out of the car and shut the door (several times), no doubt alerting the possible serial killer to his presence already. He walked up the path, eyeing the unkempt front yard.
He knocked on the front door firmly. No one answered. Since he knew Donald was inside, he knocked harder and this time he yelled, "I know you're in there! Open up!"
This time the door opened, but just enough to see half a face and one bright blue eye, part of stubbly chin. "What do you want?"
"My boyfriend," Timmy said. "I know he's in there and I know what he's up to, so how about you just tell him I know and send him out."
"I don't know what you're talking about," the man said slowly, something tight around his mouth, something like contempt.
"I saw him go inside," Timmy said. "I know he's here. I think I might like to wake up the whole neighborhood if I don't see him right now."
The man's mouth broke into an amused smile. "You must be the wedding ring."
Timmy held up his hand and wiggled his finger. "Kind of someone to notice."
"Come on in," the man said.
Timmy cautiously stepped inside, his face heating up and his heart hammering. The house was dim, light coming from the room at the end of corridor.
The man closed the front door and nodded to the room. He have Timmy a rather smug grin and said, "Take a seat. I'll go get him. He's upstairs."
Timmy gave a stiff nod and headed down the hallway, turning right around when he heard his host run up the stairs. Timmy quickly peeked into the kitchen he'd been directed towards and instantly saw another open door in the corner. Keeping his eye on the doorway he'd come through, he went to the other door and looked through it, finding a dimly lit staircase that went into a basement.
Timmy took a deep breath, shaking his head and knowing this had 'trap' written all over it, but he couldn't hear Donald in the house and there was no way whatever that man had been implying with his grin was true. Timmy nodded to himself. Right. Of course. Trap. What would Donald do?
Donald looked around the kitchen and found a bottle of Extra Virgin Oil on the counter. Of course, it would have to be extra virgin if this was Mr. Righteous himself. Timmy grabbed the bottle and quietly made his way down the stairs. The basement was cluttered with boxes on top of each other and stacks of newspaper and other clutter. The air smelled musty, smell turning to metallic taste in Timmy's mouth, making his stomach clench. Above him, Timmy could hear measured footsteps and in front, he heard a low moan. Donald.
Timmy stepped back into a shadow and called out, "Donald?"
There was an incoherent murmur and the footsteps upstairs sounded more assured. Timmy could hear them in the kitchen, and then on the stairs as he hid in a shadow, hands sweaty around the glass bottle he held, feet impatient to get to Donald. The man was coming down the stairs slowly, as to surprise Timmy no doubt.
Timmy held his breath and waited in the shadows, calling out for good measure, "Donald, you're going to be okay."
The steps on the stairs were quiet and before long Timmy saw a shadow of a man as he slowly made his way to whatever lay beyond those large storage boxes.
Then he stopped, his body stiff as though a realization had struck; his new guest wasn't there. Just as the man turned around, Timmy rushed out of the shadow and just threw the bottle which hit the man square on the head. The man fell to the ground in a lump, something falling from his hand. Timmy went to him and crouched down, picking up a syringe from the floor, filled with a clear liquid.
The man lay semi-conscious, groaning. Timmy took the syringe and got up, watching the fallen man with barely contained rage. Then he heard rapid footsteps and held up the syringe. Dear God, what if there were two of them?
"Kenny!" Timmy exclaimed when he saw the young man, frying pan held high in hand. "What are you doing?"
"I saw the lights go off so I broke in through the back," Kenny said. "Oh, fuck."
Timmy followed Kenny's gaze to the prone form just behind his feet.
"Oh my god, Donald," he said, stepping over the other man's legs and going to his side. "Kenny, keep an eye on that man. And did you call the police?"
"They're on their way," Kenny said somewhat breathlessly. "Is that him? Did we get him?"
"I don't care, Kenny," Timmy said, somewhat shakily.
He pulled Donald into his lap the best he could with the other man's hand cuffed to a pipe that ran along the bottom of the wall. Donald's jacket was missing and he looked horridly young in that T-shirt and those jeans, too vulnerable for Timmy's liking. He was also slightly out of it, surfacing every now and then, fighting to open his eyes. Timmy tried not to imagine him lying there with bleeding letters cut into his chest, an inscription of condemnation on his dead body.
"Donald?" Timmy asked quietly, stroking Donald's hair. “Donald.”
Donald's eyes opened like it was a real fight to do so. He frowned at Timmy for a moment and then his eyes caught sight of Kenny with the frying pan. His mouth quirked in a smile and he let out a small laugh before his eyes closed again.
Upstairs, the door sounded as though it had been broken down, followed by loud thundering footsteps.
Timmy felt his chest shudder as he called out, "Down here!"
Then the basement was flooding with people and Kenny was making Bub grimace with his long explanation. Timmy sighed and closed his eyes, pressing kisses to Donald's temple as he held on tight while someone uncuffed Donald's hand and called out for an ambulance.
A moment later Timmy felt the lightest touch on the back of his head and pulled away to see Donald smiling at him sleepily, far too amused. “Hey.”
Timmy shook his head and said, "I hate you," but Donald's smile said he knew the truth.
- the end -